


Summerhall

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dunk the Small is not, F/M, Ghosts, Halloween, Jaime is confused, Tragedy at Summerhall, but it's halloween, how the ghosts stole christmas, this is just the plot of an X-Files episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: “Does she know?”Jaime spun around, nearly jumping out of his skin. He flexed his hand around the flashlight he carried. Dust and soot and time itself danced toward the floorboards in the cone of yellow light. On the other end stood a man whose wrinkles cast shadows like the trenches of the Great War across his face.“Who are you?” He took a cautious step towards the man—broad and snowy-haired, though his violet eyes shone bright and like a much younger man’s.“Duncan Targaryen, and this is my house.”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jenny of Oldstones/Duncan Targaryen
Comments: 34
Kudos: 137





	Summerhall

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to forbiddenfantasies for doing a first-read on this and assuring me it was not, in fact, too weird to post.
> 
> Not actually beta'd, so all mistakes are my own :)

“Does she know?”

Jaime spun around, nearly jumping out of his skin. He flexed his hand around the flashlight he carried. Dust and soot and time itself danced toward the floorboards in the cone of yellow light. On the other end stood a man whose wrinkles cast shadows like the trenches of the Great War across his face.

“Who are you?” He took a cautious step towards the man—tall and broad and snowy-haired though his violet eyes shone bright and like a much younger man’s.

“Duncan Targaryen, and this is my house.”

Jaime stopped short, a plume of dust clouding around his Oxfords and resettling back onto the floor before either of them spoke again. _Duncan_ _Targaryen_ had lived centuries earlier. This man must be some Targaryen offshoot squatting in the old Summerhall estate. The place was half-ruined: crumbling in on itself in one place and flooded in others. But this part of the house seemed structurally sound, if a bit mildewed. It was almost strange, how intact it was.

“Summerhall’s been a historic landmark for decades,” Jaime said slowly, his head cocked to the side and eyes narrowed. “Are you related to _the_ Targaryens?”

The man calling himself Duncan huffed and finally broke his intense stare to pace around the light shining upon him. “I _am_ ‘the’ Targaryens.”

Jaime tracked him with his eyes as he moved across the room. He moved with a surprising sort of grace, dressed in a black silk gown with a crimson dragonfly embroidered into the breast. His bone-white hair flowed in waves down to his shoulder blades and those _eyes_.... It was true he looked like a king of old, but that was—that was _impossible_.

An involuntary shiver crept down Jaime’s scalp and down his neck. He nearly took a step back when Duncan halted abruptly and tilted his head to mirror Jaime’s expression.

“I asked you a question, young pup.”

The man smiled, and it was such a grandfatherly sort of smile—not that Jaime had any experience with paternal warmth of any sort—that he felt the hairs on his arms relax again. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been gripping the flashlight until his fingers eased around the hilt of it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaime muttered, a little caught off guard at his own sincerity. “I didn’t hear you.”

Duncan hummed at that, his toothless smile widening and eyes softening. “Does she know?”

Jaime blinked. Licked his lower lip once. Scratched at his five o’clock shadow.

“Did you escape from the home, old man? You’re not making any sense.”

“Such insolence.” The man chuckled and, without turning to look, sank into a dusty high-backed armchair just behind him. “I was once like you.”

Jaime’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. There was something too genuine, too sharp and in-focus about this so-called Duncan Targaryen. Some part of Jaime’s mind urged him to trust him while the rest of his body seemed hyper-aware that something wasn’t _right_.

“Have a seat,” Duncan said, gesturing with a liver-spotted hand in the direction of Jaime’s knees, looking just beyond him.

Jaime arched an eyebrow. He’d just come through the door. He knew the only thing behind him was a trail his footprints had created in the ancient layers of dust. But Duncan raised his brow insistently, creating rows of wrinkles in his forehead.

When he turned his chin over his shoulder to look, it dropped open in confusion. A matching faded red chair was directly behind him, almost touching his knees. When he turned back around, Duncan inclined his head so Jaime slowly eased himself into the chair.

He expected a creak, a cloud of dust, perhaps even an insect or two. But the chair was soft and comfortable and reminded him of something warm from his childhood that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He settled into it easily enough, and after he had, he noticed a fireplace at the other end of the room, a fire he had somehow not noticed cracking and popping invitingly.

“Was that always—?”

“Burning?” The purple irises of Duncan’s eyes were more red than blue in the firelight. “Yes, of course.”

Jaime nodded. Perhaps he was coming down with something. He’d missed the chair _and_ a roaring fireplace? How odd.

“You don’t like fire,” Duncan remarked passively. His face was a little sad, a little too knowing.

“No.”

“Nor do I.”

Jaime met his eyes from across the room, acutely aware of his heartbeat. Willing it to slow down where it had suddenly quickened. He was determined to hold the old man’s stare.

“I thought all you Targaryens liked fire,” he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. Jaime wouldn’t allow thoughts of _that_ Targaryen to encroach. He’d traded a considerable chunk of his inheritance to a therapist to rid himself of those nightmares.

“Oh no. There were— _are_ —those of us who found all of that rather barbaric. Summerhall was victim to a great fire once, you know.”

Jaime did know. It was what had lured them there in the first place, he and Brienne. She’d told him in the car on the way over the story of the great fire—the Tragedy at Summerhall, history books called it. Jaime already knew the story, of course. But he’d listened intently with only a few interjections designed to make her laugh. It wasn’t often Brienne Tarth spoke at length, and Jaime relished every opportunity afforded him to hear her tell a story. The way her eyes would shine and the color would rise in the apples of her cheeks. The way she’d grip the steering wheel more and more tightly as she grew more and more excited. It wouldn’t have looked like much to an outsider, he knew. But to Jaime, it was as rare and precious as a blue moon.

“You should tell her that,” Duncan interrupted Jaime’s thoughts.

“I can’t just _tell her_ ,” he replied dryly.

“What are you afraid of, Jaime Lannister?”

He had not yet registered that Duncan Targaryen seemed to be conversing directly with Jaime’s thoughts or that he knew his name when one had not been provided. Instead he settled into the absurdly plush and cozy armchair a little further and ran a hand across his short-cropped hair.

“She’s like the sun, old man. She’s the sun and I’m just space junk orbiting helplessly around her.”

Duncan Targaryen considered him and again Jaime felt a wave of gut-wrenching panic, but it subsided quickly. The crooked-backed old man was nothing to fear, after all. He just wanted a friendly chat, alone as he was on Halloween in such a miserable, lonely place.

“She’s dying next door, you know.”

Jaime shot up. “What? What the _fuck_?”

He wracked his brain for when he’d last seen Brienne. They’d entered the foyer together, climbed what was left of the grand staircase that led up to the second floor and then—then what? He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten into the room he was in, or which way Brienne had gone. What were they even looking for here? All of his recent memories seemed as foggy as the morning air on an autumn day.

It was…

“She’s not, settle yourself, boy.” Duncan seemed annoyed. “She’s fine, but what if she wasn’t, hm? To use your rather dramatic language, what if the sun was going out? Wouldn’t you want as much warmth as you could get before it was all gone?”

Perhaps it was pleasant, the fog.

Jaime sank back down into the chair, the odd sense of calm familiarity washing back over him. The room was hot, though. Almost uncomfortably so. The fire at the other end of the room continued to blaze. He drummed his fingers on the armrests of the chair. Perhaps he could tamp the flames a bit—

“You should take your jacket off.”

Jaime nodded and followed Duncan’s suggestion. He peeled off the wool peacoat he wore over his suit and loosened his tie while he was at it. Duncan stood in one graceful motion and took the coat from him, folding it over the back of his own chair before easing back into position. Jaime watched all of this as though through someone else’s eyes.

What had they been talking about?

Jaime cleared his throat. “It’s not that simple.”

“You saved her life.”

“She would have found a way past that bear without me.”

“Do you always do this, pup? Talk yourself out of the things you want?”

“I don’t even _know_ what I want!” Jaime stood abruptly again, shaking off a little bit of the fog. He scrubbed his hand over his face, one fist jammed in his pocket as he paced from one end of the room to the other.

Gods, it was hot.

“You know,” Duncan said softly, his eyes imploring and sad. “Don’t wait. You never know when you’ll run out of time.”

Jaime stared. He stared and stared and _stared_. Sweat had broken out along his temples, trickling down his back, beading on his upper lip.

“Who are you?” he asked again—quietly, levelly.

Duncan stood and crossed the room, standing closer to Jaime than he had yet. He brought with him a gust of cold air that made Jaime shiver in his sweat-damp state. Standing so near, he could see better the sadness in Duncan’s tired old face. His eyes were still so youthful, eerily unaged. But the glint in them was still mournful.

“They called me the Prince of Dragonflies, once.”

Jaime did stumble backward then, dimly surprised when he didn’t crash into the chair he’d occupied no more than five minutes ago. His eyes darted to the dragonfly on the old man’s breast.

“ _That_ Duncan Targaryen died ages ago—the Tragedy—the Prince of Dragonflies died in the fire—He died _young_ —”

“I tried to get her out in time,” Duncan said wistfully, seeming to ignore the upending of Jaime’s entire worldview. “A wall fell on me. I was going to die there, but she refused to leave me behind, my Jenny. So stubborn. Much like your Brienne.” He smiled at Jaime again, kindly and understanding in the face of Jaime’s pallor and perspiration.

“She isn’t _my_ anything.”

“Is this really the time for arguing, Jaime? Tell her. Before it’s too late.”

Jaime opened and closed his mouth several times. But before he could get anything out, he was distracted by a loud crash directly behind him.

“ _Jaime!_ ”

He turned rapidly, feeling a little dizzy from all the sudden changes of direction he’d sent his body into in the last hour. Standing in the flung-open doorway, inexplicably haloed by bright, hot light behind her, stood Brienne.

“What are you _doing_?” she shouted. She had her blouse wrapped around her face and her exposed chest heaved with exertion.

At once, her strong arm was on his waist and she was dragging him toward the door. He slung his arm around her shoulder and she bent to pick up his discarded wool jacket from the chair. The dusty, empty chair.

“Put this over your face,” she instructed, though she draped it across his mouth and nose without giving him a second thought.

A woman waited for them in the hallway, smiling softly. “Tell him, Brienne,” she said sadly. “You could have so much time ahead of you.”

Brienne ignored her and tugged Jaime toward the crumbling staircase. It was only when they approached that he realized the building was on fire. Smoke stung at his eyes and the tears ran down his cheeks. The heat seeped into his every pore and the flames licked higher and higher up the stone walls as they passed.

“Hold on,” Brienne said at the top of the staircase. Without warning, she scooped him into her arms and bounded down the staircase.

Jaime burrowed his head into the crook of her neck, vaguely confused but not complaining. The walls were like to fall down around them any moment but still he’d never felt more safe. More protected. Brienne had him and all would be well.

Then suddenly there was fresh air. Or _fresher_ air. The night still smelled of smoke and ruin. With each step across the lawn, Jaime’s head seemed to clear again. Gods, Brienne was carrying him from a burning building. They’d just been supposed to investigate reports of an urban legend—ghosts who visited Summerhall on Halloween—and yet— _Brienne was carrying him from a burning building_.

“Are you alright?” she asked once the heat had died down and the air in his lungs was cool and clean.

She peeled the jacket from his face and tugged her blouse down from her own.

Jaime leaned his head back to peer up at her. The moon shone in her eyes and even with the bright orange flames roaring and groaning in the backdrop, they were more blue than Jaime had ever seen them.

“Unscathed as usual,” he said with a crooked grin.

She snorted and set him upright then took out her phone and dialed emergency services. While they waited, they watched the flames go up, shoulders pressed against one another.

“I met a woman in there,” she said softly. “You’ll never believe who.”

Jaime chuckled. “Jenny of Oldstones?”

Brienne turned to look at him and he met her gaze. She was searching him, he knew. Looking for the joke, for the sarcasm. He had none to offer her this time, so he shrugged.

“They were real. Your ghosts.”

“They’re not my ghosts.”

Jaime smiled and hesitantly took her hand in his. “What did she tell you?”

Brienne’s fingers twitched in his. He thought she might pull away but instead she squeezed and Jaime could feel his heart tighten in response.

“She told me not to leave you.” She inhaled deeply, eyes trained on his. “Did you—?”

“Duncan, yes. The Prince of Dragonflies. I think—it seemed like he was _in_ my head.”

“What did he tell you?” Her voice was very small, almost timid. Far too vulnerable for a woman who’d just single-handedly carried him to safety.

“He told me to _tell you_. But Brienne…” He turned to face her. “I’ve never been very good with words.”

She laughed at that. “I know.”

Jaime gave her a fond smile and reached up a hand to push the damp hair that clung to her forehead away from her face. She covered his hand with her own, pressing it to her cheek and closing her eyes.

“You saved me,” he said.

“You saved me first.”

“It isn’t a competition, Brienne,” Jaime muttered before he leaned in and kissed her. One hand on her neck, the other sliding up to her hip. Sweet and gentle. A promise. An affirmation.

Brienne pulled away first and Jaime whimpered against her mouth. But when he opened his eyes, she was smiling. The sight of her set him on fire anew. But there was time. Sweet, blessed time. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and picked up her hand again.

They watched the flames again as the sound of sirens approached in the distance.

“Jaime, look,” Brienne gasped, raising a hand to point toward one of the windows.

The room she pointed to seemed untouched by the flames and just inside he could see two people—a dark-haired young man and a slight young woman—holding one another close as they spun about the room to a song no one could hear but the two of them.

Jaime pulled Brienne into him and her head rested on his shoulder. She relaxed into him, and not even Summerhall could hold a candle to the warmth that flooded his body in that moment.


End file.
